


"Now Look, Paulie, I'm Not Taking 'No' For an Answer!"

by waveofahand



Series: 30 Second Fanfics [14]
Category: McLennon - Fandom, The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 30 Second Fanfic, If I Fell, John is proposing again, M/M, One Shot, a hard days night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-18 19:33:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20644505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waveofahand/pseuds/waveofahand
Summary: When John took a knee and smiled straight into Paul's eyes while singing "If I Fell", he was asking a serious question. When Paul didn't give a serious answer, John followed him...and got a little reckless. He also terrorized the Hard Day's Night crew in the process***This is a work of fiction. I don't own the Beatles. I imagined all of this. But it is a true fact that "If I Fell" is the most gloriously intimate and lovely song the Beatles ever put out.30 Second Fanfics are quick McLennon pieces all based on photos found around the internet, so pictures are necessary and really add to the story. The whole series is dedicated to @Lynzee005, who has been an inspiration for my writing and so wonderfully encouraging!





	"Now Look, Paulie, I'm Not Taking 'No' For an Answer!"

So, it turned out filming a movie was a bore. People assumed it to be glamorous work -- hell, the Beatles had thought it would be glamorous work -- but in truth, it was a tedious business involving long hours of waiting around for a camera to be properly placed, or lighting or sets to be adjusted. 

None of the Beatles were enamored of the experience. Paul McCartney, always a bit restless, absolutely hated all the down time, and even George and Ringo were finding themselves running out of ways to keep amused between shots. There were only so many hands of Gin Rummy they could play and remain sane. Also, Ringo always won and George was going broke.

John Lennon didn't mind the slow pace as much as the other lads. For him, lots of downtime meant lots of Paul-time, and Paul-time was never boring for John because who could be bored when they were spending all of their time beholding an absolute beauty? 

So, John was pretty much alright with movie making as long as Paul was there and he could amuse himself by following the fidgety bass player around all day while they could smoke and joke and throw chords and phrases at each other in search of another song. A day spent just doing that? It was alright by John, really. 

The thing was, though, as content as John was to be lazy and unproductive, shadowing Paul had brought along with it a surprising sense of longing, probably because Paul didn't seem to even notice that John was following him. Macca could be maddeningly oblivious at times, and -- as he paced and drank endless cups of tea and chatted up any member of the film crew who wasn't currently scurrying around -- he seemed not to realize (or appreciate the fact) that John was making a point of being near Paul when he could instead have been enjoying a kip, or a backroom knee-trembler with one of those dancer birds, or even just playing a hand of cards with the lads.

No, Paul seemed to simply assume that if John was strolling about with him, it was because he too needed to stretch his legs and make small talk -- "Hello, what's your name, then? Nigel? You're a grip? A Key grip? What's a key grip do, Nigel? Have a family?"

It was breathtaking how obtuse McCartney could be, sometimes, John thought. _How can he_ _honestly not be getting that I only want to hang with him? That I'm not interested in anything or anyone else, especially not in some chap named Nigel?_

In fact, John was beginning to feel his fury rise and was just about ready to let Paul have it -- demand that attention be paid his way -- when Paul found a chap who identified himself as "Derek, the Best Boy."

All it meant was that Derek was the assistant to the chief electrician, but John was suddenly fascinated. He couldn't get past the idea of someone announcing himself as "best boy", particularly not in the company of the Beatles, who even Nigel had to admit, were better than anyone else in the room. And certainly Derek could not be 'best boy" when Paul McCartney, John's Forever Best Boy, was right there and looking perfect, and perfectly interested in everything and everyone.

In short order, Paul was rolling his perfect eyes as Lennon found a way to harass Derek for fully ten minutes. 

"You're the BEST Boy?" John had exclaimed, his eyes rounding in pretend shock. "How do you know? Who _told_ you? You know, I've been asking around for years, 'Who's the best boy? Is it me? Is that bloke behind the bar giving a perfect head to a pint? Is it that artistic bloke from school giving a perfect head to a pinto?' I asked me mum -- 'Mummy,' I said, 'Am I the 'best boy'? -- She shrugged and admitted I was alright for a small pet but she didn't know who the 'best boy' was. My Auntie wouldn't say, either, but she is known for her lack of taste...what does a 'best boy' _taste_ like, anyway, Derek?"

Paul had shaken his head with a theatrical sigh toward Derek. "Sorry. You've given him words to play with, Derek, and so play he must." Still, having made an excuse for him, he gave John a speaking look, meant to warn him off. 

Lennon didn't take the hint. For one thing, he was a little annoyed at Paul. For another, he felt like he was on a roll, and yet again, he was feeling oddly compulsive in the way he sometimes would, when old insecurities were being triggered in his subconscious mind. He couldn't have stopped if he wanted to. He was like a radio set for the 'Scorn channel' and unable to be turned off. "Did your Mummy tell you that you were the 'best boy' Derek? I bet she did, dinn't she? I bet every night she'd put you to bed and say that you were the 'best boy, the loveliest nookem-snookem of a lad ever blew breath in England' before she kissed your chubby cheeks and cheeked your chubby chub. Can you imagine, Macca," he turned to Paul, "having to live up to that?"

The look he got back plainly said, "Stop it, now, John. Don't mock a working lad or I'll say something you won't like."

John smirked back at it. "Alright, Derek-the-Best-Boy, I can see Paulie doesn't like me teasing you, but let me ask, how does one get to _be_ a 'best boy' anyway? Is there an audition? Do you get into a room with a lot of other boys and show what you can do? Do you wank off until someone decides whose 'best' at it? You know, I think I secretly always wanted to be a 'best boy...how 'bout you, Macca? Remember when we would all be in a circle with Bardot on our minds?'"

At this Paul had taken John by the shoulder, giving it a hard squeeze as he forcibly walked him away from the blushing young man. In a clear voice he said, "I see they've nearly set things up, lads. Let's get ready to pretend to sing, yeah?" 

"Am I in trouble, Daddy?" John teased.

"Just _stop_, John," Paul muttered, his voice low and deep, "Be nice, alright?"

Ringo, abandoned by George for the snack table and seeing them headed to the set, decided to join them. The three jammed a little bit before an assistant director came over to let them know the crew was about ready. 

"Ah, time to be movie stars," John announced. "And we're doing _our song_, yes, Paulie-love?"

Again, Paul shot him a look through his heavy lashes, but this time he grinned. "_Our_ song," he whispered. 

He got a wicked look from his partner, who suddenly took a knee and said something that had been on his lips _[since at least 1961](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182481/chapters/45597766)_, or maybe even before: "Marry me, then, Princess! We can announce it at the premier!"

Ringo watched Paul's jaw fall open as he looked at John. He couldn't help smiling at the two of them, because it wasn't often that John shocked Paul into silence. Still, he shook his head. Lennon could be so indiscreet, sometimes, he thought. And _If I Fell_ was already a pretty bold song, ready to tell a surprising tale about its composers if the world were only curious enough to hear it.

But most people, Ringo knew, were so taken by the piece's melodic beauty that they didn't think it through, didn't wonder at the words, or what was actually being asked -- what deep and real plea was being made beneath those almost hypnotic harmonies, and the singularly intimate (almost erotic) sound that dominated a recording whenever Lennon and McCartney shared a mic. 

And there they were, right in front of his drum kit, still gazing at each other in silence, John's eyes betraying a depth of feeling he'd be better off not showing, and Paul drinking it in, in silence.

_Enough of that_, Ringo thought. These two would get themselves in trouble and thrown into jail or worse if they didn't rein it in. He struck his tom-tom, startling them both. 

"Alright, there, Richie," Paul asked, as John got to his feet. 

"I know _I_ am. Not sure about you two," he smiled as the assistant director called George away from the food area, and on to set.

The scene had gone off pretty well, reshot at least four times from different angles, although once the director, Richard Lester, had felt the need to call "Cut!" and walk over to Lennon, discreetly reminding John that he was supposed to be looking at Ringo (not at Paul, went the unspoken rebuke).

Then the pretty song, and the pretty teasing, had come to a halt. Lunch break was called.

An hour and a bit later, the lads shot a goofy exchange with other players in a single take, and that meant another long delay as the minimalist set was struck, with another to be erected. John looked around, squinting, wanting Paul again. He found him off in a corner, still holding his bass and talking with a young man who seemed to do something with microphone cables. 

"Making friends again, are we?" John's voice approximated that of a posh snob. "And who is this, then?"

Paul introduced him to Mark, a lowly assistant sound fellow, and hoped for the best. 

"And are you also called a 'best boy' young Mark?"

Mark, who had witnessed just how savagely John had toyed with Derek, shook his head. "I'm just a go-fer," he shrugged. "I just do as I'm told."

"He does as he's told, Macca!" John pronounced in exaggerated wonder. "Can you imagine? Let's tell him to do something! Just for us! You do it, you're nicer than I am."

"Again, John, stop," Paul shook his head.

"But, no, seriously! Tell him to do something! Preferably something he's probably good at! Go on. He's a gopher, you know. Tell him to find a hole for you and get into it..."

"Umm," Mark a very young man and fairly new to his job, looked around helplessly. 

"Christ, John!" Paul's eyes nearly rolled out of his head. "Can't you behave?"

John groaned and gave Macca a faux sympathetic eye. "No, McDadda, I can't. I'm sorry. I know it's so hard for you, sometimes. So very, very _hard..._" 

McDadda's eyes grew nearly twice their size as a suppressed gasp of laughter made its way out. He turned to Mark. "You're a nice lad, Assistant Sound Kid, don't let him throw you." 

"Aye, he's a nice gopher. And dark holes are their business, you know. They work very hard on those dark holes."

Mark scratched his face with a bit of cable he didn't even realize he was holding, leaving a dusty black smear on his chin. "I have to get back to work," he murmured, preparing to take his leave. 

"Oh, don't leave on my account, in fact, stay!" John ordered. "I need a witness, you know, because I asked Paul, here, a very serious question a bit ago, and if he'd give me a straight answer, why, then I will need you to go fer a few special items for me!"

"John..." There McCartney went with another warning. 

"Of course, Mr. Lennon," Mark sputtered, "Whatever you need."

"_Cake_," Mr. Lennon pronounced. "I need cake, probably. And champagne and little napkins. And whatever diamonds you can find laying around. Do you have a pen? Write this down, now...if there are no diamonds about, rubies will do."

Paul held his bass up to his ear, preferring to tune it into perfect wave syncs, yet again, than listen to his partner prattle on so recklessly. Mark, meanwhile, was searching his person for a pen and notepad. Paul shook his head at the young man. "He's not serious." 

"Of course I'm serious, Macca," John objected. "You know exactly how serious I am. I asked a question, and it was a very loveliest of questions, the most flattering of all questions. If you were a princess, you know -- a _real_ princess -- you'd have an answer ready for me."

"Happily," Paul sighed, "I am not any sort of princess."

Mark smiled. Obviously they were joking. 

"What are you smiling about, cable boy?" John leered at him dangerously. "You're not a part of this conversation." 

"Then you shouldn't have stopped him from leaving," Paul said.

"Oh, stop making sense, Bunny, you know if someone tells me he's a gopher I have to play with him! It's in the contract. Hmmm...wait. He's a gopher, you're a Bunny..."

"Oh, fer _Christ's_ sake!"

"No, for _mine_! For _my_ sake! I get so bored, you know, and lonely. I need a furry gopher to tickle me a bit with his wee tail." John looked at Mark. "It is a _wee_ tail, innit? For a very small hole?" 

"_John_!"

"Alright, alright, I'll tell you what, Macca --" he suddenly interrupted himself, turning again to Mark. "I am forever pleasing him, you know. So, I will apologize, because I know he wants me to. Do you forgive me, Gopher?"

"Of-of course," Mark stuttered, eyes wide with confusion. 

"See, now, Gopher has forgiven me, Paul, so I'll tell you what happens next. You marry me, we'll adopt young Mark here, with his wee tail -- you did understand, love, that I meant T-A-L-E, didn't you?"

"I did not," Paul said, his tone somewhere between amused and mildly miffed, "But you're giving him a pretty big T-A-L-E to carry about, now, aren't you?" 

"I can _spell_, you know," Mark whispered.

"Did I say T-A-L-E? Of course I meant the other!" John turned to the miserable-looking young man, "I meant T-A-I-L, of which you have a very respectable-sized one, I am sure!" He looked back at Paul. "There, now, is that better?"

Paul was biting hard on his lower lip, wondering what his auburn-haired lunatic would decide to do next. 

John decided to play it to the back seats, for all it was worth, and let everyone believe he was joking. Sounding like a drunken Laurence Olivier, he looked directly at Paul and held one hand aloft, albeit gripping his guitar strap. "Ha! That's it, now. Let's settle this! Will you marry me, McCartney, _yes or no_?"

"No," Paul said simply. There was an oddly affectionate smile behind his eyes. 

John blinked. To Mark it looked almost like a flinch, as though Lennon had been flicked by Paul's short refusal. But he didn't know the man well enough to say. He decided he had imagined it all, as John Lennon came back, instantly in form. "Ach, forsoothe! A feckin' loser, I am! I pledge my troth and he refuses! I cast my love upon the waters and it comes back soggy! Alack and alas, for a lass with a good ass. Why not? _Why not,_ Macca?"

Paul winked at Mark, still standing there, both amused and confused, and then he smirked down at John. "Cyn wouldn't like it, now, would she, love," he said. After a beat he took up John's game, announcing in an overly-mannered, playful voice, "And besides, if I'm only your _second_ choice then you can fuck off, Lennon! The McCartney needs to be one's one-and-only."

John's shoulders slumped in exaggeration. "Well, that's that, then. No hope for me, is there?" He turned to Mark. "I'm grieving, lad! Go get me a bird without a gag reflex, help rebuild my spirit, would you? _The McCartney_ has broken me, lad, and I'm done for. I'm lower than low." He returned his gaze to Paul, a little smile playing at his lips. 

"I'm _low_, Paul. I'm going down for the count." 

"Aw, I'm sorry, lad. What can I do to make it up to you, then?" Paul cooed.

"Well...so many things," John pretended to blush and dither. "But if you're really not going to marry me and have me, Macca, there is something you can do for me..."

"Anything, John-love."

John sighed and narrowed his eyes, his tone suddenly sharp as a flick knife. "You could zip yerself up, mate, before someone tries to run a flag up that pole."

And while Paul burned scarlet and turned to hoick up his fly before God and everyone could see, John Lennon put his arm around a terrified young gopher, and walked away.


End file.
